


Broken Heart Like a Phoenix

by spss



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, BAMF Jaskier | Dandelion, Feral Jaskier | Dandelion, Hurt Jaskier | Dandelion, Hurt/Comfort, Insecure Jaskier | Dandelion, Jaskier | Dandelion Whump, M/M, Timeline What Timeline, Unrequited Love, geralt and ciri show up later i promise, jaskier multiclasses in ranger, no beta we die like my social life during quarantine, what does feral even mean in this context? i think this applies?, yennefer knows exactly what she's doing and has the brain cell
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-12
Updated: 2020-05-13
Packaged: 2021-03-02 01:15:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,441
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23606662
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spss/pseuds/spss
Summary: A surprise visit from an old enemy snaps Jaskier out of a multi-year period of heartbreak following the moment he and Geralt parted ways.Suddenly, Jaskier thinks that Geralt may be willing to take him back as a companion again if Jaskier were to prove his worth. He could be useful. He will be useful.He took archery lessons when he was a child, after all. And spite is one of the best motivators.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 12
Kudos: 215





	1. Chapter 1

In a way, it both began and ended with Yennefer of Vengerberg. 

The _wallowing,_ that is. That time was a slippery, fluid thing, flowing through his fingers cold and unnoticed, unimportant. There had been a few years of the wallowing, if memory were to serve him correctly, time spent lost in a foggy mixture of self-pity and self-hate. Wallowing in the misery until it wrapped around him like a cloak of invisibility.

It began when Yennefer and Geralt had their fight. What even _was_ that? Jaskier honestly couldn’t have explained what had really even happened there, not having been a part of the conversation until it was over. Yennefer had left, and in his pain Geralt had lashed out at the first person he could find. That person had been Jaskier, and Jaskier spent a good amount of time wallowing, wondering whether or not he deserved it, until it no longer seemed to matter. Either way, Jaskier knew that while Geralt was off somewhere living his life unchanged without Jaskier, Jaskier’s life had been turned upside down without Geralt.

So Jaskier wallowed. 

And that’s what he was doing the night he snapped out of it. 

Jaskier had spent the better part of the evening performing in the decrepit tavern, a pathetic building filled with people only because this town was the only one around for miles and an autumn chill was beginning to settle in, sour and damp. Cold rains made sleeping outdoors miserable, and combined with the regular dangers of a war-torn continent, shelter was a necessity. 

He would have preferred to _not_ sing the songs that reminded him of Geralt, but he wasn’t really known for anything _beyond_ Geralt, and no other songs he played received responses with nearly as much enthusiasm, and Jaskier had to eat.That particular night, he was _starving._ Too few days with too few coin and next thing he knew he was standing on a table belting out _Toss a Coin to Your Witcher_ until his throat was sore. He ended the performance with a single rendition of _Her Sweet Kiss_ before deciding to sit down and call it a night. In truth, it was getting late and Jaskier was starting to get a little bit lightheaded from a combination of sleepiness and hunger.

The soup was hardly anything to be praised, but it was something, and Jaskier gave it his complete attention, eventually forsaking a spoon to greedily sip the broth straight from the bowl. Thus, he didn’t notice her approach until she said his name.

“Bard.” She paused. “Jaskier.”

Jaskier raised his eyes and when he saw Yennefer of Vengerberg standing tall in front of him, he dropped the bowl and it smacked into the table with a sharp _clang,_ earning the pair a few looks as soup dripped off the table and onto the floor. And onto Jaskier’s right leg.

“You’ll be cleaning that!” The barkeep snapped, but Jaskier wasn’t paying him any mind, his mouth gaping open as he stared up at Yennefer.

After a few moments of silence, when she realized that Jaskier was much too flabbergasted to run his mouth, Yennefer rolled her eyes and pulled back the chair at the table to sit across from Jaskier. She placed her elbows on the table and frowned at him with steepled fingers.

“I would appreciate it if you would stop prattling on about me all across the continent,” she said. “I have heard that song 500 times too many.”

“Wh-wha- _what?”_ Jaskier cried. “You… we... it has been _years,_ and you, you just -” Jaskier waved his hand in a circular gesture towards her face, “you… you just _show up_? Here? In the middle of nowhere?”

Yennefer raised an eyebrow. “You’re not difficult to track. You have… quite the presence.”

Well, Jaskier could admit that was true. His songs had garnered him enough fame to where people he had never met before knew his name, knew of his tales, knew of the heroism of Geralt of Rivia. But it still didn’t explain any of _this._

His heart stopped when the realization hit. “Oh, for the love of… you’ve been _following me?_ I-I cannot _believe_ the audacity you have to —”

Yennefer cut him off. “The song,” she said, emphasizing the word as if Jaskier was too slow to understand what she was referring to.

“I-I am not the only one who sings my songs, _witch,_ ” he said, slowly, mimicking her tone of voice, emphasis on _witch._ “It-it is… a bit too late for that, I fear.” He hated the way his voice stuttered, unmasking the way his heart pounded in his chest at the sight of her, a little-bit of fear mixed in with a _lotta_ -bit of anger. Jealousy, too, even though it had been years and any feelings he had towards Geralt in that type of manner should have certainly faded by this point, but if anything, the feelings were only accentuated by the wallowing, and festered.

But, that was of no matter, really, at this point. Instead, Jaskier narrowed his eyes, suddenly even more suspicious of the woman who sat across from him with steely violet eyes.

“If…” His voice wavered again, to his dismay. “If you’ve really heard the song that much, you… you would know that.”

The song in question was _Her Sweet Kiss,_ of course. They didn’t need to discuss it. Simply implicit knowledge. A song of a dangerous girl, who swipes a man away from the narrator, against his better judgement? Yes, Yennefer and Jaskier did not need to speak its name. Implicit knowledge.

But if she had heard the song that much, over the course of years, she would know that it was out of his control. Jaskier could not simply snap and wipe the song from existence. Yennefer was not foolish; if anything, her intelligence made her chaos all the more terrifying.

At this she conceded. “Admittedly,” she sighed, “that was not the reason I sought you out. Though, if you were to cease your performances of that damned song, its fame would snuff out, and my life would be all the better.”

Jaskier rolled his eyes. “Do you get off on being as vague as possible? Does it add to the mystery? We have quite the enigma.” He tapped a quick rhythm on the splintered wooden table, attempting to release growing nervous energy. “Would you care to explain why you are here, then? Why you chose to follow _me,_ of all people? Has your opinion of me changed in the past few years? Maybe you recognized what you were missing out on, then, and have come to win my favor and —”

“Shut it,” Yennefer snarled, teeth clenched. “Where is Geralt?”

Jaskier froze, his fast-beating heart skipping at the mere mention of Geralt’s name.

“I—I apologize, really, but I must go,” he said, clumsily gathering his things, throwing his lute over his shoulder. There’s soup on my trousers and I really should go change, immediately. I smell like carrots. Goodbye, Yennefer.” He stood, nearly slipping on spilled broth as he turned on his heel and started towards the door.

He didn’t make it far before a hand gripped his wrist, preventing him from moving any farther. “Jaskier _._ ” If she clenched her jaw any tighter, Jaskier was sure her teeth would break. “Where is Geralt?”

“How am I supposed to know? Do I look like his maid? I’m sure he’s…” Jaskier gestured vaguely off into the distance. “Out there, somewhere, doing Witcher things. Most likely very, very busy.”

“ _Jaskier.”_ Yennefer’s grip tightened around his wrist. Her long, decorated fingernails (lovely, actually) dug into his arm painfully, and Jaskier tried to shake away from her grasp but she held on too tight. He could feel half-moons being branded into his skin. 

“This is important,” she continued. “Bigger than whatever feud lies between us. I wouldn’t have come seeking for you if I did not find it necessary.”

“What is it, then?” Jaskier frowned. “Is… Geralt, is he in danger…?”

Yennefer let go of his wrist and Jaskier pulled it back, rubbing it along the indentations she left behind to soothe the ache. 

“No one has seen him since the fall of Cintra,” she said. “And no one has seen Cirilla either. We have reasons to believe that they may be travelling together.”

“Was Geralt there, the night Cintra was taken?”

Yennefer nodded gravely. “Rumors have said as much. And rumors are all we have.”

“You’re looking to keep Princess Cirilla away from Nilfgaard,” Jaskier said, quietly, with understanding. He bit his lip, concerned. “If Nilfgaard were to get to her….”

His thoughts, travelling at a speed faster than any horse could run, turned back to Geralt. He never seemed interested in his Child Surprise in the past. Had he stepped up to the call of destiny after the fall of Cintra.

Jaskier’s mood always soured soon after thinking of Geralt, ever since the wallowing began, and this moment was no different. He clenched his hands into fists as his feelings towards Geralt made themselves known again.

“Not that it matters to me.”

Yennefer appeared genuinely surprised by that. “Excuse me?”

“I haven’t seen Geralt in years. Not since the dragon hunt.”

“What do you _mean_ you haven’t seen him?”

“I mean I haven’t seen him.” Jaskier shrugged. “He told me to fuck off and so I did. He actually told me that if life could give him one blessing it would be to take me off his hands. So I fucked off, and I haven’t seen him since. Thus, I have no idea where he is, or what his plans are.”

Yennefer tried to reply, but Jaskier cut her off. 

“I wish you the best of luck on your quest, truly,” he continued. “I was devastated when I learned of Cintra’s fall. I have met Princess Cirilla and I hope for her safety. But, alas, I cannot help you.” He bowed. “And thus, with that, I bid you adieu.” Jaskier started towards the door.

To his dismay, Yennefer followed.

“I don’t understand,” she said from behind him. “You were useful to him. Or, at least, you must have been, for him to have put up with you for so long.”

Jaskier stopped in his tracks in the middle of the main street of the town, throwing his head back and laughing. It was late at night, and the sound echoed off of the buildings, no people around to break its waves. “Oh no, no, not at all,” he said. “I was a liability. Always in trouble. And no help in battle, either.”

“Then why didn’t you fix it?”

Jaskier spun around to face her, eyebrows furrowed. His lute spun with him, and he grabbed its neck to slow its momentum as it thumped against his side.

“Fix what?”

Yennefer crossed her arms across her chest. “If you knew you were a liability to him. Why didn’t you make yourself useful?”

Jaskier blinked.

“Have you been sitting around wallowing in self-pity for the past few years? You look dreadful. Did your barber pass in the war?”

Jaskier nervously fiddled with his hair, twirling it around where it laid by his chin. “I kind of like it longer, actually,” he mumbled.

“I can’t pretend to know what happened between you and Geralt. But if you know what the problem was, then fix it, and there’s a chance you can get back what you lost.” 

“I’m _sorry?_ ” 

Yennefer rolled her eyes, as if Jaskier was missing something obvious, as if she hadn’t been speaking in tongues to him.

“I don’t have the time for this. Good luck, Jaskier. And stop singing that damned song.”

She opened a portal and was gone before Jaskier could even think of what to say. She left him completely speechless — a novel, foreign feeling.

And there were still soup stains on his trousers.

…

Make himself useful.

He wasn’t useful to Geralt. Geralt meant _everything_ to Jaskier. But Geralt didn’t need Jaskier. 

Make himself useful to Geralt.

There were multiple things that Jaskier did that annoyed Geralt. The constant singing, of course, but Jaskier didn’t plan on stopping that anytime soon and Geralt would just have to deal with it — that is, if he ever saw him again, which was unlikely, but Yennefer ( _damn her)_ did have somewhat of a point.

He really _had_ just spent the past few years wallowing.

He was tired of the wallowing. 

Jaskier remembered one particular fight that he witnessed between Geralt and some creature, a monster of the sea, with slick scales and a slimy exterior. They were at the coast, and Jaskier was too close, the waves lapping the tips of his toes. He had just wanted to see it, but it saw him too, and took a bite right at his shin, Jaskier not having the ability to dodge in time.

Geralt was annoyed, Jaskier could tell, and he ordered him to stay away from all fights in the future. The pain from the wound was blinding, and Jaskier chewed on his cheek until it bled, filling his mouth with the taste of metal. 

He was a liability to take on journeys, he knew that. 

But maybe he didn’t have to be.

Jaskier sat on the foot of the bed in the inn, plucking at a string of his lute. Not sure what to play, the only tune he produced was a low C, over and over again.

Music was his passion. It was the one thing he was really good at, the one thing he really enjoyed. He wasn’t a fighter. But he _had_ been taught archery when he was a child. He wasn’t great at it, but he wasn’t terrible at it, either.

Jaskier plucked at the G string, thinking, thinking. Thinking, not wallowing.

Maybe he could make himself useful.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's where I think it'll start to get interesting.

_Thunk._

Another miss. Jaskier had stuck a couple of red autumn leaves to the front of a tree to practice hitting small targets. It was not going well.

Logically, he knew that it had only been a week since he spent the last of his savings on his new longbow, a quiver, and a pack of twenty arrows. He would not be a skilled archer, yet. But Jaskier couldn’t help but feel disappointed anyways.

The arrow had lodged itself firmly into the trunk of the tree and Jaskier went to retrieve it. The tree was sturdy, the bark was rough, and when Jaskier yanked the arrow from the tree, he had to use a surprising amount of force to get it to budge. Once he pulled it out, his strength backfired on him. Without the tree holding him steady, the momentum caused Jaskier to slip and fall right on his rear.

 _How embarrassing._ Luckily, he had walked far, far down an abandoned road to practice. Though Jaskier was typically a people person, who thrived in the company of others, he had felt rather sullen (more than usual) as of late, and felt he might end up humiliating himself if anyone were to see him screw up basic archery. 

With a sigh, he stood up, wiped off his pants, and walked back ten meters. Not a particularly far distance, but longer than the six meters he had begun with at the beginning of the week.

Perhaps he was improving. A bit. Nothing impressive, he knew, and it would be a long time until he acquired the skill necessary to win back Geralt’s favor.

But even then, that was dependent on ever seeing Geralt again, an outcome that could only be forged by destiny itself. And Jaskier wasn’t sure if destiny planned to work in his favor.

He shook those thoughts out of his head and smacked himself on the cheeks, forcing himself to snap out of it. No wallowing.

Instead of wallowing, he nocked another arrow, closed an eye, stuck out his tongue in concentration, and shot. All the while brainstorming words that rhyme with arrow, a new song dancing in circles at the corner of his mind. _Arrow, sparrow, narrow, harrow..._

He practiced with his bow for another hour or so before his stomach decided to remind him that he skipped lunch that day. Hyperfocused on his task, the thought of a meal didn’t register to him until the sun was setting low on the horizon. 

_Fuck._

Coin wasn’t an issue, he had saved his money for a month before buying the longbow, and still had a bit left over. He’d been working twice as much as usual, performing until sunrise, leaving him exhausted most of the time but able to earn much more than usual. 

However, what _was_ an issue was the distance he had traveled. It would likely take hours to get back to the inn, and by that point, the moon would be nearly at its peak in the sky. The night’s brightest stars were glowing in contrast against the pink and orange of the sunset. It was honestly beautiful, and for a moment Jaskier paused to watch.

But another insistent growl from his stomach prompted him to turn and leave anyway.

An hour later, Jaskier was growing cranky, angry with himself for having lost track of time. Memories drifted by of nights where he and Geralt made camp among small roads just like the one on which he was currently walking. Jaskier would set up camp and start a fire while Geralt went into the woods. Geralt would come back with something to eat, usually a few rabbits, fish, or even venison if fortune was in their favor.

_No, not fortune. Skill._

Geralt was skilled at hunting, trapping. Geralt was skilled at _everything._ Jaskier could sing, play the lute, perform. But how was that useful to someone like Geralt?

Answer: it wasn’t.

Jaskier’s stomach felt like it was eating itself. He looked to his left, off the trail, and noticed that the terrain had grown rather swampy over the course of his walk. 

Swampy, damp, vile-smelling soil meant there was likely a significant body of water nearby.

Jaskier’s stomach growled. He laughed to himself, giddy, when the idea hit him: he’d catch a fish! He’d never done that before. If he could use his bow and arrows to shoot a fish for dinner, that would be a _perfect_ test of skill! Nevermind the dark of the night, the moon was full and Jaskier could see well enough. 

He immediately wrinkled his nose in sympathy for his poor, poor shoes as he took his first step beyond the treeline. The ground was even grosser than he expected, and his (expensive!) boots sunk down a few inches into the muck. 

Jaskier was hit with a bout of exasperation as he was hit with the realization that he had probably just made a very large mistake. But at that point, he figured there was no going back. He took the first step, so he might as well keep going.

As Jaskier walked deeper into the swamp, he was more and more grateful that he decided to leave his lute locked inside of his room he rented at the inn. The air was becoming more humid the further he went into the trees, which would have _not_ done the fragile wood any favors. The high humidity combined with the cool air was chilling him down to the bone, his clothes getting damp as he trudged through the mud.

The water was getting deeper, and he was soaking wet up to his shins, now. A feeling of dread began to settle in his chest, and he knew he should turn back, but at this point he was already wet and miserable and he didn’t want to stop walking until he got a damn fish. If he turned around, he’d be muddy and wet and gross all for nothing and he’d still be hungry. 

So he was going to get himself a damn fish.

Underneath the tree coverage of the bayou, the moon was shadowed, and Jaskier’s breathing sped up as he found it harder and harder to see. Cattails brushed against his legs, startling him.

More than that, he was irritated by the stink of the swamp. Every time he took another step through the muck, a disgusting sulfur-like odor was released, and Jaskier despaired as he realized he might never get the smell out of his clothes. And he was wearing one of his _favorite_ shirts. It was a majestic shade of reddish-pink. Jaskier was in mourning.

Jaskier was interrupted in his nervousness and misery when he was slammed into the trunk of a bald cypress.

_...the fuck…?_

He pulled his hand away from the tree with considerable effort, and flexed his fingers in an attempt to remove the fine, sticky white substance that covered them.

It was like…

A web.

_...fuck._

Jaskier had been breathing heavy from anxiety and exertion before, but now, he lapsed into full-blown hyperventilation as he used his legs to force his body away from the tree, which held him off the ground with the help of fine, sticky web. When he managed to get himself loose, he fell and landed in the mud with a heavy _smack._

He plunged face-first into the slimy mossy goo and he hastily tried to wipe it from his eyes and mouth. He spluttered and retched. 

The swamp tasted exactly how it smelled. 

In his desperation to get the taste out of his mouth and the muck off his face, he was smearing web across his skin, which reminded him of the real problem.

Where had that web come from?

Jaskier had his thoughts, and none of them were good.

He pushed himself off the ground, scrambled to his feet, and made to run back in the direction he came.

And that was when he heard the screech.

Now, when he later wrote a song to tell this tale, there were a few details he was sure to leave out: the fact that he responded to the arachnas’s wail with his own high-pitched scream, the fact that he might have pissed himself just a little bit the second the monster came into sight, and the fact that when he tried to run away he didn’t pick up his feet high enough, causing him to, yet again, fall face-first into the mud.

There were two thoughts that were simultaneously running through Jaskier’s mind. The first one being “ _I’m dead meat. Oh, gods, this is it, I’m dead meat!”_ and the second one being _“aaaaAAAAAAHHHHHHH!”_

This was it. He had really done it this time. Geralt wasn’t here to save him. Jaskier would die here, killed by a giant spider and left to rot in swampy shit-smelling mud. Perhaps, in decades time, he’d be a bog-body, and some poor, poor soul would encounter his preserved remains in the muck and pity the man who met his demise in such a wretched place.

Oh gods, what if it was _Geralt_ who found his body? Jaskier knew it was unlikely but _oh, gods,_ the humiliation would be so great that Jaskier would be mortified even across the planes of existence where he would reside in the afterlife.

The image of Geralt rolling his eyes at the sight of Jaskier’s half-eaten corpse was enough to give Jaskier the will to live. He couldn’t prove he could be useful to Geralt if he died pitifully. Jaskier rolled over onto his back, then sat up, looking the creature right in its eyes as it rose up from the soil 30 yards away. He pulled his (now disgusting) longbow from his back and nocked an arrow (its arrowhead dipped in silver) and aimed at the creature just as it released a noxious cloud of venom. 

His skin stung and he couldn’t stop coughing but he released the arrow anyways. It was no match for the monster's hard pinchers. The arachas approached as Jaskier struggled to get up, slowed by the mud, poison, and web. Those powerful pinchers reached out and grabbed Jaskier by the shin, pulling him closer.

Jaskier screamed as the sharp claws pierced through both his clothes and his skin. Reflexively, he yanked his leg back. Another mistake to add to his growing list of big, big mistakes; the opposing forces ripped into Jaskier’s flesh leaving deep, ugly gashes behind. 

But it was enough to remove his body from the monster’s grasp. Jaskier sobbed, but was able to scramble to his feet and run, all the while his wounds caused the outer edges of his vision to fade black with the agony.

The mud was too difficult terrain to sprint through. He’d never be able to outrun the arachas. This, he knew, and in a split-second decision of complete, utter desperation, Jaskier ran up to a medium-sized cypress tree and began to shimmy up the trunk.

Jaskier was not aware that he possessed the upper body strength to be able to pull off such a feat, but the pure adrenaline rushing through his veins made anything possible in that moment.

He had a vantage point. The spider monster was not able to reach him and he heaved himself onto a branch and sat there, legs dangling down still out of the arachas’s reach.

Only seconds after Jaskier sighed in relief, the arachas began to throw its body against the tree, attempting to knock Jaskier off of it. Jaskier gasped and grabbed the branch, his knuckles white from how hard he was holding onto the wood.

Jaskier needed the spider to _stop moving,_ so he could reach into his quiver, grab some arrows, and start shooting. He had seen Geralt fight these monsters before. He needed to aim for the bulbous, weak abdomen, but he couldn’t do that if he was holding onto a tree branch for dear life.

So, in an attempt to distract the creature, he did something moronic.

“W-when a humble bard, graced a ride along, with Geralt of Rivia, along came this song…”

Jaskier began to sing. The only thing he knew how to do.

The arachas stopped smacking itself against the cypress, confused. Probably thinking: _why is my dinner performing a song before I devour his supple flesh?_

“When the White Wolf fought, a silver-tongued devil…”

Jaskier reached into the quiver on his back and drew from it an arrow, preparing his bow.

“...an army of elves at his hooves did they revel.”

Jaskier fired an arrow, and with the advantage of height, gravity was on his side and it stuck itself straight into his target. The arachas screeched. It spit its venom at Jaskier, who nearly tumbled off the branch coughing, but he steadied himself and shot three more arrows that hit in quick succession.

Though he felt like he was on fire, and his voice was stupefied by coughs, Jaskier continued singing.

“They came af- _cough_ -ter me, with ma- _cough_ -sterful deceit…”

At every major beat of the song, Jaskier let another arrow loose. The creature was still alive, and he was running short on arrows. He only had five left.

“... broke down my lute and - _cough_ \- kicked in my teeth…”

The arachas wasn’t looking too good.

“... while the devil’s horns minced our tender meat…”

He was out of arrows. The arachas was heavily injured, but still alive, and it went back to throwing itself against the tree.

“... and so cried the Witcher…”

 _Wait, no._ Why was Jaskier singing about the Witcher? Geralt wasn’t here. This was Jaskier’s story. 

While one hand held onto the branch for dear life, Jaskier reached his other hand down to his boot and pulled out a silver dagger. Geralt had given it to him nearly a decade ago, and of course Jaskier still carried it with him. How could he not?

Jaskier took a deep breath and launched himself from the tree, landing right on the back of the spider.

The creature nearly flung him off its back, but Jaskier was faster, having the element of surprise. Jaskier stabbed it with all the strength he had left in his body, throwing all of his body weight into the movement. A few stabs later and it was dead, screeching and sinking into the mud.

“Ha! Hahahahaha!” 

Jaskier fell into complete hysterics. He half laughed and half sobbed as he lied down on the back of the arachas, completely exhausted.

It was over. The fight was over and he was somehow still alive. Jaskier laughed and cried until his diaphragm ached and he had to stop.

What would Geralt say, if he were here? Well, first he’d probably berate Jaskier for being an idiot, but after he did that… would he be proud?

In the past, after defeating these creatures, Geralt would skin them and gouge out their eyes, both as proof of the kill and as a vital ingredient for alchemy that could be sold at a good price. Jaskier would always blech dramatically and stick his tongue out as Geralt did it, much to Geralt’s annoyance. But performing the act himself was much worse, and Jaskier would have vomited if there was anything in his stomach to begin with.

He never got that fish.

It took him a good amount of time to make his way out of the swamp, having lost his path in the chaos of the fight. Every time the cattails and bushes brushed up his leg, the pain was blinding. The sun was beginning to rise when he finally trudged his way past the treeline and found himself back on the little dirt road that he had missed so dearly.

He stumbled down the path for a couple of hours, barely holding onto consciousness, until he noticed a farmhouse to his right, wood painted yellow. Horses grazed within a fenced-in meadow. Next to the house, an older woman sat on a stool, milking one of the cows.

“Hell-oooo!” Jaskier called out with a wave. He accidentally dropped one of the arachas eyeballs, so he bent down to pick it out, whimpering as the cuts in his leg pulled with the movement. 

“Don't worry, I’m fine!” Jaskier called to the woman. He continued to approach the house, and the woman stared at him with wide eyes.

He certainly must have been a sight to behold - a wet and disgusting middle-aged man, holding monster parts, bleeding heavily and smelling horrendous. 

“I killed the big spider for you,” he said when he was close enough to the woman that he didn’t have to yell. “I, personally, think it was quite impressive.”

The woman said nothing, her big brown eyes approximately the size of dinner plates.

“Do I get paid for that?” Jaskier asked. “You know, it most likely would have killed you eventually. And your horses. And ate you. And it really _was_ an impressive feat! Well deserving of a few coin, in my humble opinion."

Jaskier took a deep breath, his ears ringing. "Actually… can I… I have a glass of water? That would be fine. Better than coin, actually…”

The woman’s gaze moved from Jaskier’s face down to his bleeding leg.

A gust of wind blew past. 

Jaskier opened his mouth to say something else, but his eyes rolled up in his head and he promptly fainted.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you very much for posting kind comments! I can be pretty insecure at times, so they make me really happy. :)


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I took what was originally going to be one chapter and broke it into two. This entire chapter was written in my outline as only a couple of pages of quick summation, but I was like "it might be cool to flesh it out a little bit, and would help me get an easy little chapter out quickly" but then it ended up being longer than all other chapters and took me a long time. Oops. I'll... I'll proofread this in the morning, I need to sleep.

Jaskier lapsed in and out of consciousness.

The moments that made the least amount of sense were the ones he was aware of, if only for split-seconds at a time. He was being lightly slapped on the cheek. He was being lifted, and he whimpered when a strong hand grasped his leg, sending a sharp flare of pain through his injured calf. 

He was on a hardwood floor, and someone was undressing him, muttering unhappily about mud and swamp smell. Jaskier tried to apologize, but the words came out slurred and unintelligible. 

“Ack!” A startled voice, male, came from above him.

Though his vision was swirly and blurred, Jaskier saw a face move into his line of sight, looking down at him. An elven man, with bright blonde hair contrasted against dark freckled skin. “Sorry! I didn’t realize you were awake!”

Jaskier was so, so tired. He closed his eyes and sighed, waiting to be pulled under once again.

“Wait,” The elven man shook Jaskier’s shoulder. “Don’t fall asl—”

But Jaskier was unconscious again before the man could finish his sentence.

He woke again when he was dipped in a tub of lukewarm water, and he gasped and coughed. He instinctively inhaled water when his head was pushed underwater.

“Sorry,” the old woman from before was there, her fingers running through his hair. Washing it or trying to comfort him, maybe both.

Jaskier groaned with obvious indignation. 

The elven man huffed. “Oh, come on, you surely don’t expect me to allow you to lie in my blankets looking like _that.”_

Choking on water, Jaskier felt his eyes drooping shut again.

 _“Shit_ ,” the old woman said, smacking Jaskier hard on the back to get the water up. “Rickard, look at what you’ve done.”

“It was _your_ idea to —”

And Jaskier’s vision went black.

The fourth time he woke, it was less fuzzy, and much more comfortable. He was in a soft bed, underneath the covers, his injured leg elevated on a few down pillows. Biting his lip with confusion, he noticed he was dressed in simple white clothing, slightly too small (the sleeves didn’t reach full down to his wrists), but well-fitting enough to work for the time being. Pulling up the blankets revealed his leg to be bandaged, though when he tried to move it, he hissed in pain.

In the corner of the small bedroom sat the woman he had seen before, asleep in a rocking chair. Her head lolled to the side, resting on her shoulder and displaying a messy gray bun tied up at the nape of her neck. Her dress was simple and dotted with yellow flowers. She wore no shoes.

“Excuse me?” Jaskier called, but his voice was barely audible, hoarse from thirst and lack of use. He cleared his throat and tried again. “Excuse me?”

The woman snored but didn’t budge.

Jaskier sighed, but he looked to his left and saw there was a nightstand with a glass of water resting on its glass surface. He grabbed the glass and drank from it greedily until there was nothing left inside of it. When he placed it back down, he noticed a piece of paper pinned to the wall above the surface of the table. 

A child’s drawing. Rough, shaky lines depicted a small elven boy holding hands with an adult human woman. The picture must have been old. The edges were yellowing and curling up, but other than that, the drawing seemed well cared for.

After he was no longer at risk of dying from thirst, the exhaustion hit Jaskier at full-force yet again, and he fell asleep against his will.

The fifth time he woke, when his senses had fully returned to him, it was when the elven man was at his side, shaking his shoulder.

“Psst, hey.” The man (Rickard?) shook him harder. “Can you wake for me?”

Jaskier pulled the blanket over his head and buried his face in his pillow. “No,” he answered. “Tired.”

“Um, do you even know where you are?”

Jaskier’s eyes snapped open. Right. _Right._ Where the hell was he?

He turned his head and stared at Rickard with wide eyes.

“You passed out in front of my house. Do you remember?”

“Ugh. Of course I remember.” 

(Though some of the details remained hazy).

Jaskier pushed himself up onto his elbows and squinted at the man, his leg throbbing beneath the thick blanket, his stomach cramping with hunger. “I don’t recall _you_ being there, however. Unless you’ve gone through some sort of major....” He waved his hand around in the air, searching for the right word. “... _metamorphosis.”_

Rickard snorted. “No. I was not there. You scared my poor mother shitless, though.”

The blurry memories started to creep up to the surface of his mind, and his eyes narrowed further. “Were you attempting to _drown_ me?”

“No.” Rickard walked over to the rocking chair in the far corner of the room and sat, pulling a leg up on his knee and lacing his fingers together. “Your wound would have caught an infection had we not cleaned you. Swamp water is unhygenic. Besides, you were disgusting, and you’re currently lying in _my_ bed.”

Jaskier couldn’t hide the ripe red blush that rose to his cheeks, the implication of the bath setting in — complete strangers had undressed and bathed him while he wasn’t even conscious. Maybe the situation wouldn’t have been quite as embarrassing had he been awake for the ordeal. He wasn’t shy in any sort of way, but there was something rather vulnerable about the whole thing. Having to be taken care of in such a way, like a young child. And he hadn’t been able to provide some much-needed comic relief….

“Relax.” Rickard uncrossed his legs and pressed his toes onto the floor, pushing the chair so it rocked. “If we were going to do anything to you, we would have already —”

Rickard overestimated how much force was necessary to push the rocking chair a reasonable amount, and the back of the chair smacked up against the wooden wall.

“Rickard!”

Heavy footsteps outside of the room, and then, the doorknob turned and the woman Jaskier had seen outside entered the room. “What is all that racket? Wait — _o_ _h_!”

Her eyes widened as she noticed Jaskier sitting up in bed. The woman, short and plump, hurried over to Jaskier’s side, placing a wrinkled hand on his forehead. Jaskier flinched and pulled away.

“Oh, stop that,” the old woman said, giving Jaskier a pat on the cheek. “My name is Mila. I can help take care of you.”

“Okay, okay, okay, okay, no.” Jaskier shifted in the bed, making to stand but biting his lip when he disturbed his injured leg. Unperturbed, he took a breath. “That’s enough of this, if you’ll excuse me, I can go ahead and,” he pointed towards the door with a thumb, “leave, immediately.”

“Ha! You’re not going anywhere. Not on that leg.” Mila put a firm, pale hand on Jaskier’s shoulder, attempting to hold him in place.

Rickard snickered from across the room.

“Mmmm, I don’t think so.” Jaskier brushed her hand away. “If you don’t mind me, I’ll just….”

Jaskier tried, and failed, to throw his legs over the side of the bed. The pain was blinding, and he left out a soft, unintentional cry as black dots began to dance in the corners of his vision.

“Mmmm, yes, I _do_ think so.” This time, Jaskier allowed Mila to move his body so he was lying down again.

There was so much that Jaskier could have said, wanted to say, _needed_ to say, but all he could do was clench his teeth and pray that the tears brewing in his eyes would not escape to fall down his cheeks.

They didn’t.

 _No more,_ he told himself. _No more._

“Alright, alright, that’s enough.” Sensing the mood, Rickard rose from the seat and ushered his mother towards the door. “We will leave you to rest. I, uh, just wanted to make sure you weren’t in a coma.”

“Let us know if you need anything, dear!” Mila called.

“Wait, actually…” Jaskier ran the pads of his fingers across the cotton surface of the sheets, feeling ashamed and nervous despite himself. “I _am_ rather hungry, if… if you wouldn’t mind….”

Jaskier remembered how Geralt was always the one to hunt for the two of them.

_If life could give me one blessing…._

“Oh! Of course!” Mila smiled. “There is bread rising in the kitchen. It’ll be ready to bake in just a few minutes. I’ll have it ready just for you in a little over an hour.”

“Thank you,” Jaskier whispered.

Jaskier drifted in and out of sleep. Sure enough, an hour passed and Rickard turned the knob of the door and came into the room holding a pan of bread. It smelled delightful and Jaskier was afraid to speak, lest all that came out of his mouth was drool.

Rickard plopped the pan, still warm, right on Jaskier’s stomach.

“Eat,” he said. “You’ve been out for over a day.”

Jaskier didn’t even bother asking for a fork, dunking his hands into the still-soft bread and shoving a fistful of food into his mouth. Ravenous.

“Whoa whoa whoa.” After about thirty seconds, Rickard took the pan away. Jaskier whined, throwing his head onto the pillow in protest.

“You’re gonna make yourself sick if you keep eating like that.” He set the pan on the nightstand. When he noticed Jaskier eyeing it, he slid it further away from the bed with a single finger.

“How about I get you some more water?”

Jaskier nodded fervently.

Rickard picked up the empty glass left abandoned on the table and took it with him. When he returned, he handed Jaskier the cup, and Jaskier chugged it.

“Whew!” Some water had escaped the glass and ran down his chin, so Jaskier wiped it away with his sleeve. “That is _so_ much better. You have no idea. Thank you so much, really, I cannot _begin_ to get you to understand how grateful I am. Truly.”

“Mmmm.” Rickard grunted a silent approval, taking the now-empty glass and placing it next to the bread pan.

Now that he felt a bit better, no longer cranky from hunger, he began to interrogate Rickard with the plethora of questions that were running through his head.

“I assume she’s not your biological mother?” He asked first.

Rickard snorted. “What makes you assume such a thing? Is it because her hair is darker than mine? I couldn’t have expected you to guess.”

“Heh.” Jaskier twiddled with one of his ears.

“No, she’s not my biological mother.” Rickard gave him a gentle smile, then pointed to the drawing pinned to the wall. “My mother… well, you’ve already caught a glimpse of her character.”

He traced along the lines of the picture, sighing. “A human woman ran away from her family to escape an arranged marriage. She never liked the men that were chosen for her, you see. Or any men at all, in truth.”

Rickard tore his eyes away from the drawing, glancing at Jaskier to gauge his reaction. When Jaskier gave him a knowing, sympathetic smile, he continued.

“She’s the kindest person you could ever meet, you see. She found an abandoned elven boy and took him in as her own, no matter what judgement she would face from such an act.”

Rickard retrieved the bread from the table and placed it on Jaskier’s lap. “If you had to pick which house you wanted to collapse in front of, I don’t think you could have made a better choice.”

Rickard clapped him on the shoulder. “Now, eat,” he said. 

Jaskier grinned, reached into the pan, and grabbed a big handful of bread. Rickard smacked his hand. 

“At a normal pace this time, please. If you throw up on my bed I’m kicking your sorry ass out of the house and leaving your corpse for the birds.”

Jaskier’s jaw dropped. _“What?!”_

Rickard fell into a fit of laughter. “I’m kidding, I’m kidding.”

Then, suddenly, he frowned. “Wait,” he said.

“What?” Jaskier’s heart pounded, confused, scared that something was wrong.

“I never asked for your name!”

Jaskier smiled. “Oh. Right.”

How silly of him, to panic at something so innocent.

He opened his mouth to speak. “My name is Ja—”

And then he stopped. Who was he to these people? Who could he be? Could he be Jaskier the bard? Or would that name ring a bell? Had they heard of him before? Would he be known to them as the White Wolf’s bard?

He couldn’t have that.

So he feigned a cough. “Sorry,” he said, clearing his throat. “My name is Julian.”

Rickard nodded. “Okay, Julian. I’ll leave you some time for yourself, then. Call if you need anything.”

And he left, leaving Jaskier alone with only that delicious bread to distract him from painful thoughts.

About an hour later, the pan of bread was empty, and Jaskier laid back and closed his eyes, attempting to sleep again. He had nothing better to do, and couldn’t shake the exhaustion and heavy feeling in his heart. 

_If life could give me one blessing…_

Jaskier’s thoughts always had a tendency to run at a pace even quicker than his mouth did, multiple trains of thought speaking at once, too quick to allow him rest. Jaskier attempted to clear his mind with every trick he’d ever heard of. He counted to a thousand in his head once, then twice. He imagined sheep jumping over fences in his mindscape, counting those as well.

_If life could give me one blessing…_

And there he was, wallowing again. He’d have kicked himself for it, if it wouldn’t have led to unbearable pain.

Eventually, his inability to sleep was driven both by the inexhaustible running of his thoughts and the resulting consequence of drinking so much water. He sighed, annoyed with himself, his circumstances, and the entire fucking universe as a whole. He tried to ignore it, but by some time he was too uncomfortable.

He didn’t consider calling for help for even a second. He was sick of relying on help from other people for _everything._ He had got himself injured. Only a fool would have thought to go fishing in the middle of the night. He’d dug his grave, and he’d have to lie in it.

And by lying in it… well, he’d have to get out of that damn bed by himself, he figured.

Every movement caused the same searing pain to present itself, so Jaskier figured there was no point in trying to move slowly. Better to rip off the metaphorical bandage and move all at once, a single, defined motion to stand. 

He flung his legs to the side until he was sitting on the side of the bed, his feet resting on the floor. It hurt so fucking much that he couldn’t help but pant and bite his tongue until it filled his mouth with the taste of iron. Like he had decided to chew on some coins in replacement for his next snack.

It was better that way, though. Once he let his head rest on his knees until the dark spots in his vision faded, the pain seemed to subside a bit as well. 

He stood in one swift motion, and immediately heard something tear.

_Fuck._

He could feel it too, they must have stitched up his wound, must have, because he felt the skin pulling apart at the edges. It was nauseating.

He held onto the sheets of the bed for balance as he began to make his way across the room. 

It took only a few steps before his injured leg gave out and he collapsed to the hardwood floor with a cry.

He heard running coming from the hall outside and Rickard barged into the room without knocking.

“What the hell are you _doing?”_ He asked, half a shout, when he saw Jaskier crumpled in a heap on the floor.

Jaskier was in too much pain to speak. The pain overloaded his senses and his hearing gained a line of fuzz over top of it. His eyes, squeezed shut, only opened when Rickard grabbed him by the shoulders and pulled him off the ground into a kneeling position.

“What the hell are you doing?” Rickard repeated, pulling Jaskier’s bleeding leg in front of him. He was too harsh, and Jaskier cried out again.

“Oh, gods, please, it hurts, oh, _gods_ —”

“I know it fucking hurts,” Rickard snapped, pulling up the end of Jaskier’s trousers so he could assess the damage to his calf. Sure enough, the stitches (that Jaskier had not realized where there) had torn. “You’re so fucking lucky Mila is napping, she would have had your fucking head.”

With his steely gaze locked on Jaskier, Jaskier saw his eyes most clearly in the sunlight as it came through the bedroom window. Honey-brown and angry, Jaskier tore his sight away, choosing to stare at the floor beneath him instead. 

When Jaskier looked away, Rickard let out a sigh.

“Look, Julian… it’s frustrating.”

If Jaskier had clenched his jaw any tighter he would have broken it.

“We don’t even _know_ you, but we’re trying to help, because those fucking spider monsters are always driving us up the wall, stealing our chickens and such…”

Jaskier really couldn’t help but screw everything up, could he? Taking advantage of the kindness of strangers. Useless on his own.

Maybe Rickard noticed Jaskier’s brooding mood, because his face softened. 

“At first I was worried that you were going to rob us or something — sorry, pure instinct — but you’re too injured for that and honestly you look too damn sad all the time to have any negative intentions, I think.”

Jaskier blanched. “I look _sad_?”

Rickard rolled his eyes, and didn’t answer the question. “Why the hell did you try to walk?”

Jaskier looked back at Rickard and rolled his eyes right back at him in response. “I had to take a fucking piss.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah, fucking _oh!_ ” Jaskier mocked his voice, attempting to diverge from the redness blooming on his cheeks.

To be fair, Rickard looked just as embarrassed, and he rubbed the back of his head, tousling light blond curls. “You could’ve just asked…” He muttered.

“Help me up and I won’t need your help.”

“Oh, shut it, you’d piss yourself before you made it to the toilet and it’s not like I haven’t seen your cock before anyway.”

Jaskier’s jaw dropped open, balking, unable to form a response.

Rickard, stronger than he appeared, simply hoisted Jaskier up onto his shoulder and carried him out of the room.

…

Jaskier stayed with the small family for another two days before he moved on. He had left his things back at the inn in the next town, and knew that he would be in a load of trouble, and short of his lute and supplies, if he didn’t return soon.

When Jaskier had expressed concern over the fate of his lute, Rickard perked up. “Oh! I have a lute. I’ve been playing since I was a child. Perhaps you could play it for us? As a repayment?”

Jaskier, of course, could not decline. He held the instrument in his lap and strummed at it absentmindedly while Mila cleaned and restitched his leg wound. Jaskier hummed and singed a tune to no one but himself, zoning out to distract himself from the pain. Rickard watched, seemingly amused, a finger resting on his chin as he sat in the rocking chair. 

“You know, you’re pretty damn good with that lute,” he said later, when they were travelling on the trail back to the nearest town. Jaskier down from where he sat on the family’s single horse, a brown mare with pretty golden hair that he was braiding as he rode. It was only a few hours’ walk, but Jaskier had refused to ride the whole way while Rickard walked beside him, so they were taking turns.

“Honestly, I think you’d do quite well as a bard,” he continued.

The instinct to preen at the attention was taunting him. It would have been _so_ much fun and so, _so_ validating for Jaskier, in that moment, to reveal his true identity, to say that _Yes!_ In fact, he _was_ a bard, one of the damn best ones out there, too! Jaskier had heard Mila murmuring a familiar tune the night before, after all. Certainly they’d know of him.

But Jaskier had a quiver strapped to his belt, and he still felt the painful tug of swollen skin.

“Whaaaaat? Noooo, not a trade for me, no, no,” Jaskier spluttered. “I… I could never! Too much… singing. I don’t much like singing. Don’t like it much at all.”

Rickard raised an eyebrow.

Jaskier’s heart hammered in his chest. “Plus, don’t you think your fingers would get tired? Tired fingers. From playing a lute too much.” He rubbed his thumb against his forefinger, caressing familiar calluses. A self-comforting technique.

He shook his head. “No, no, I think this,” he took an arrow from his quiver and twirled it through the fingers of his other hand, “is the better thing for me to do. Yes. More use comes from that, anyway. Yes.”

“Hmmm. Well, if you ever want to change professions, there could be something for you out there.” Rickard shrugged.

“No, no. I don’t think so. Not for me.”

“Julian.”

“Yes?” Jaskier squeaked.

Rickard burst into a sudden fit of laughter, stopping the middle of the road, and Jaskier nearly fell off the horse in his surprise.

“What’s so funny?” He demanded.

“I’m sorry, it’s just…” Rickard wiped a fake tear from his eye. “You are _really_ set on keeping up this act!”

Jaskier was so confused. Completely befuddled. “Act?”

“Oh, for the love of….” Rickard leaned up against his horse, looking up at Jaskier with those honey-brown eyes. “I _know_ you. My mother does as well. We met you, years ago. I was just a child.”

“ _What?”_

“You and your Witcher. You strolled on by once. Helped out. Same monster, I think. Stealing our chickens. You had your lute. You played that song for us. _Toss a Coin to Your Witcher, o’valley of…_ Yadda, yadda, yadda. That one.”

There were so many people that Geralt had helped over the last few decades. Sometimes whole towns, sometimes families suffering alone on their own. After some time, all of the people he had met had begun to swarm together into a single fuzz inside of Jaskier’s memories. Memories he had buried deep within himself, underneath months of drinking and wallowing to forget what had transpired between him and Geralt on that damned mountain.

“I got that lute because of you, you know,” Rickard continued, moving up to grab his horse’s reins, guiding her so he could continue to speak to Jaskier as he walked forward towards the approaching town. “It was right after I moved in with my mother, and your songs enchanted me. I think getting an instrument and learning to play was what helped me heal. Music has that healing effect. I’m sure you know this.”

Jaskier, in complete shock, could only nod and mumble, “yes, I know.”

“Of course, my mother and I, we immediately recognized you, but given you were in immediate danger of bleeding out on our front lawn, we decided not to bring it up. Later, you seemed depressed, and your Witcher wasn’t there with you… well, we decided not to pry.”

Jaskier spoke through clenched teeth. “Not mine.”

“Hmmm?”

“He’s not _my_ Witcher.”

Rickard chewed at his lip, contemplating. “I thought he was dead at first, you know. The Witcher. Geralt of Rivia.”

“Wh… what on this Earth would make you think that?”

“He isn’t with you. He isn’t dead though, is he?”

“No.”

They walked and rode in silence until Rickard spoke again.

“Oh, look!” He pointed up ahead. “That’s the inn, isn’t it? There’s a stable outside. I can help you inside and then we can have a drink and discuss payment, hmmm?”

“Oh! Yes!” Jaskier startled, and patted his pockets before he remembered that 1) these were not his pants, his own pants were burnt by Mila after they were deemed too contaminated to be salvageable and 2) he had left all of his coin in his room.

 _Room which has probably been robbed by now,_ he thought dejectedly.

“I’m sorry,” he said, “I’ll have to run inside to my room and —”

Rickard rolled his eyes, but was suppressing a laugh. “We can discuss how I’ll never be able to fully repay you for helping me and my mother _twice,_ both in getting rid of that horrid creature _and_ by returning my spirit to me when I was a child.” 

“You can’t just expect me to not try to pay you after everything you’ve done for me! Are you _mad_?”

“No, I’m not _mad._ But _they,_ ” he gestured to the inn with his head as he handed the reins of his horse to the stableboy, “over there might be, if you can’t go in there and give a very compelling argument as to why you deserve to have your things back after leaving for a few days.”

Rickard smiled. “I think I’ll be able to give them a compelling argument myself, though.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am SO SORRY this took so long! First, I had my ass handed to me by final exams (I wrote 40 pages worth of final papers in a two week period), and so I died, and then I came back to life and made this chapter much longer than it needed to be. I am so sorry.

**Author's Note:**

> Note: I haven't read the books or played the game (though I plan on doing both once I'm able to work again - ha!) but I tried to do my research to keep this as... in character as possible? And not get things mixed up? I tried my best.
> 
> I hate to be that guy, but kudos/comments are always appreciated! Not just for me, but sometimes I totally forget to give kudos or comment on fics I read - I’m trying to get more interactive myself, and make sure to give love to writers. So, if you’re like me, and tend to need a reminder, here is one! :D


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